


Barely, but Too Much

by Dark_Ruby_Regalia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Coming Untouched, Episode Ignis Verse 2, M/M, Oversensitive, Overstimulaton, Post-Canon, Touching, hints of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Ruby_Regalia/pseuds/Dark_Ruby_Regalia
Summary: It's barely a week since emerging from the crystal, and Noctis is still adjusting to his body. He's sensitive, fragile and easily overwhelmed. Ignis helps him resettle.(This is written for the Ignoct Spice event, but it's more sensual and intimate than spicy!I'm obsessed, as ever, with Noctis' post-canon adjustment, and leapt at an opportunity to explore those early days of tentative touches and refamiliarisation.)
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 34
Kudos: 124
Collections: The Ignoct Spice-a-thon





	Barely, but Too Much

The skin on Noctis’ hands was so soft. So delicate.

After ten years in statis, he'd been ejected into the corporeal darkness of a ruined world, and before he’d had time to process or adjust, he had to save it. Magic bore him through that destiny, and in its capsule there was nothing else but to fight and to die.

And Death had come, and he’d fought that too. Defeated it, in fact, with Ignis by his side. Then the magic left him, and he was trapped in a mortal body that was _his_ , supposedly, yet so different. He was oversensitive and overwhelmed, yet he hid it all until they were alone, just the two of them, and he finally let his barriers break down.

“Tape and paper,” he said, “like those shields we made as kids. They came apart on our arms with a single hit from a cardboard sword.”

“You’re stronger than that,” Ignis said, and he meant it, though the words felt placatory and inadequate.

Then Noctis started shucking his clothes, complaining about the feel of the seams, the scratch of the thread, the way the collar was coarse against his neck. It was a lack of self-consciousness Ignis didn’t recognise; one of those _newly emerged_ things that grafted onto a daydreamer’s detachment. The complaints, at least, were familiar; Noctis covered stress by taking issue, and Ignis settled into his rusted groove quickly, picking up the discards and snipping away labels and tags.

He rummaged through his own trunk of clothing to find the softest t-shirt he owned. It was threadbare and losing shape, retained because perceptions of value had changed. Apocalypse thinking: if it held together at all, it could still be useful, and now Ignis thanked that shifting need for staying his hand when he’d considered using it as a rag some countless weeks earlier. He took it now to the beautiful man perched naked on the edge of the bed but paused before offering it.

Noctis was studying the palms of his hands, pressing at them, his brows pinched tight against pain.

“Are you alright?” Iggy asked, quiet, careful.

“Blisters,” Noctis mumbled.

It had been a week or more since that fight; a father’s sword clutched tight in those pale fingers, tearing through freshly living flesh that wasn’t meant to last.

“Let me see?”

Noctis looked up. He held his hands out, palms open. Ignis took them in his as he knelt. This skin, so new. So untested. It had ripped against the hilt in a white knuckle grip. His first impulse was to kiss these palms, these fragile offerings. He didn’t. With held breath he traced around each wound; raw and weeping where the blisters had broken, flesh pink between tattered edges of torn skin.

“I can fix you,” Ignis said before realising the duplicity of his words, the presumption of the _other_ meaning. He looked up, worried. A smile greeted him, warm and ancient.

“I know,” Noctis said.

“Let me fetch the plasters.” After ten years of war, he was all too accustomed to locating medical supplies. They were still right there by the front door, too recent a necessity to yet be neglected.

“No, Iggy, it’s okay.”

“But—”

There was a look to Noctis’ eyes. A darkness, a desire. “Will you touch me instead?”

They’d skirted the tattered edges of their intimacy, too. It wasn’t just that touch was too much for Noctis to bear — after ten years of absence, it was impossible to know how to begin loving each other again. In that light, this request was unexpected.

Ignis couldn’t help himself; his eyes dropped from Noctis’ unblinking gaze to his bare lap, his cock a soft incidental between milk-pale thighs. It stirred, as though feeling Ignis’ attention.

“What do you mean?” Ignis asked, his voice losing traction. He swallowed.

“I just want to feel something good.” Noctis made it sound so simple, like he was asking for a glass of water. But then— “I need to learn how to be in this skin.”

Noctis reached for him and Ignis sunk easily to his knees again, those blistered palms pressed against his cheeks. He leaned into them, closing his eyes, letting Noctis trace him with delicate fingertips, mapping out each of his scars. The cut across his nose, through his brow. The jagged gash beneath his eye. The slice in his lip… He parted his lips against Noctis’ thumb and Noctis pressed inward until he reached teeth, following the ridge of them across the front, then he pulled away. A daub of saliva was left on Ignis’ lip as evidence of his retreat.

“Touch me,” Noctis repeated, a whisper.

Ignis bowed his head over Noctis’ knees. He was hiding his indecision, his uncertainty, but it gave him a place to begin. To test this invitation. He slid a hand around Noctis’ calf, placed a chaste kiss above his knee. He nuzzled at Noctis’ flesh, caressing with his breath, more hints at connection than absolute contact.

Noctis had watched up to now; had stroked Ignis’ hair lightly as though Ignis was the fragile one. Now he stopped and lay back, his hands fluttering across his stomach, touching himself the same insubstantial way.

Ignis brushed his lip against an inner thigh and Noctis parted for him; then he carefully placed another kiss. Here his skin was petal, porcelain, transparent; his every vessel of blood traceable by lip and by tongue. Ignis didn’t want to breathe too hard lest he damage; didn’t want to break whatever spell this was.

Above him, Noctis lay perfectly calm, his chest rising and falling slow and regular. Ignis crept onto the bed beside him — crept because he felt any large movement would cause disturbance — and he trailed a hand up Noctis’ flank. Noctis gasped; a wonderful sound. He turned his head to face Ignis, all heavy lids and long lashes, and he smiled.

“Gently,” he whispered. “Everything is still so much.”

There was never any question this would never be about Ignis. Not when Noctis requested Ignis remove his clothes; not even when he tucked in against Ignis’ chest. Skin felt better against his skin than fabric did, is all, and while Ignis swelled hard — his cock trailing its excitement in tacky smears against Noctis’ leg — his arousal was ignored by both of them.

This was all about gradual buildup, touch upon touch, layers of barely-there caresses that had Noctis shivering with sensation in Ignis’ arms, his skin pricked all over with gooseflesh, his lip quivering. His cock was hard and weeping too, straining away from his body, thick and pulsing and blushing pink. It too was ignored.

“Are you alright?” Ignis whispered again and again, as they lost minutes to each other, an hour, more — and every time, Noctis nodded. Yes, he was fine. This was good; it was necessary. Keep going.

He was animate now, lifting into Ignis’ gentle touches, pressing into them; his nipples erect, his mouth open, his moans expressing his pleasure uninhibited. A sheen of sweat broke over his skin as his heart pounded and his blood raced; his breath was erratic, filled with gasps and whimpers. He reached again for Ignis’ face, cradling it once more between his broken palms.

“Touch me.” His eyes were bright with passion but his arms trembled. He was overwrought, overstimulated, exhausted, yet still _wanting_. And there was only one thing this request could mean. One final touch that hadn’t yet been given.

Ignis lifted his hand away from Noctis’ shoulder and trailed it down his arm, lingering at the curve of his waist, almost afraid to take it further. Until now, there had been an innocence to all this; a nakedness not just of body, but of soul. It was beautiful and uncomplicated; their borders were defined. Noctis was wounded; Ignis was caretaking. Now those borders were about to blur somewhere down the path from _love_ to _lovers_.

He hovered his open hand above Noctis’ shaft, hesitating. Noctis had his eyes closed again, his mouth open slightly in anticipation, his brows once more pinched tight as if against pain. _Amazing how closely pain resembles pleasure_ , Ignis thought. And he moved in.

In the end, all it took was the slightest touch. A hint; no more. Noctis cried out, bucked on the sheets, each spurt of his release a shockwave that spattered over his chest and dripped onto his stomach, pulse after pulse of it. He glistened.

Knowing how sensitive he was before, Ignis dare not touch him now. He drew away, feeling the overused question build in his mind until it was irrepressible.

“Are you alright?”

A slow smile dawned across Noctis’ face. He cracked his eyes open. “I will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, everyone, who gives time to my words! I appreciate you _endlessly_ for bearing witness to my indulgences ❤


End file.
